


Rearranged

by apple_pi



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Even I didn't realize how porny I could get, M/M, May cause blindness, Porn, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-30
Updated: 2005-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7623478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi





	Rearranged

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Arrangements](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/217795) by Canciona. 



Rearranged

 

Viggo knows, Viggo saw it immediately. No one else did, not even Bill, Bill who I watch all the time, Bill who makes my skin feel itchy and ill-fitting and uncomfortable, Bill who at the same exact time can make me feel more complete, whole, and perfect than I have ever been. Will ever be, even if I get what I want, because that kind of completion is an illusion, isn’t it? I’m old enough to know that, just barely.

Still. I’m closer to complete with Billy than with anyone else.

Viggo saw it, Ranger that he is, tracker, hunter—he saw it that first day on Weathertop and let me know he knew.

I didn’t know who he was, really—I’d seen that movie, with Gwyneth Paltrow and Michael Douglas and him, and Christ yeah, I thought he was hot in that. He’s a thousand times hotter in Rings, though—it’s the beard, I’m pretty sure. So I’d seen him, but didn’t really know his name, anything about him. And there we are on set and he’s crouching over to the side, got his head bent down to touch his sword, eyes closed like he’s meditating. _What a face_ , I thought—yeah, I did think that. Then he looked up. Watched me watch (play with, tease, chase, catch) Billy all afternoon, and when Pete called “cut” for the day, Viggo gave me a friendly, scary smile. I thought again, shaken and needy, open hunger probably written all over my body: _What a face_.

I still think it. When I’m on my knees, looking up at him. When he’s watching me suck him off. I think it when he pushes me against the wall; my own face pressed sideways against hard cement or plaster or wood and I glimpse him a little because he’s bigger than me, taller and broader, and he looms over me, even when his knees are bent a little, pushing up between my legs, fucking me hard, piercing me so roughly I sometimes can’t stop my eyes from watering.

But I close my eyes, mostly. I close my eyes and it’s not him I see, it’s Billy, I’m off and away. Billy’s teeth in my shoulder, Billy’s cock pushing pulsing coming into my mouth. Billy’s fingers on my hips and breath in my ear, his muscles playing against my tongue and his balls slapping against my arse as he fucks me good and hard and deep.

Viggo knows, and he’s kind. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t make me look at him. Doesn’t ruin the fantasy I’m living.

 _Fantasy_. Christ, what a weak fucking word for this, for something so rough and hard and dirty and sharp I think it’ll scrape me raw if I don’t get it out, it’s lodged in me like a shard of cloudy glass, embedded somewhere painful and delicate and unreachable. Halfway between my cock and my heart. That’s where it hurts.

Most of the time I pretend to ignore it. Because Billy and I really are perfect together, just the way we are. And he’s straight, there’s nothing I can do to change that. Doesn’t matter if sometimes he sets the old gaydar to blipping. It’s my gaydar, not his. So I tell myself to stop being such a fuckwit and enjoy the most perfect friendship the world has ever known.

And when I can’t stand how bad that makes my skin fit, I come to Viggo again.

~*~

This shit, it’s Dom’s fault. That’s what I think, usually. It’s a lie, though.

Hard to admit it. Hard to admit that maybe all the half-desperate, half-exhausting years of chasing girls were bullshit, that the wet dreams and flashes of fantasy I pushed away so hard were the truth. Hard to admit that maybe—shit. No _maybe_ about it. Hard to admit that I want _that_ , I want Dom’s mouth, Dom’s body against mine. Dom’s—oh, Christ. Dom’s cock, god I want it, want to suck it, want to fuck him in the arse, maybe let him fuck me though that thought scares me really. Harder, almost, to admit that I don’t just want to fuck him, I want to make love to him, I want him to make love to me.

So I admit it, finally. Just to myself, but trust Viggo to know it. Doesn’t have to say much to me. Down the pub one night: “So, Bill.”

I cock my head at him; the others are at the bar or the pool table; I’ve retired in triumph, having whipped Dom’s arse from the first game to the last. “Viggo,” I say, smiling.

“Dom, huh?”

It’s all he has to say. I know he knows—he might as well have been in the shower when I jerked off, might as well have seen my hand on my cock, seen me mouth Dom’s name again and again as I came. I feel my face, ears, neck, chest, go sweaty red with humiliation and terror.

I’m an actor, though, so I give him a puzzled look and a headshake, like I’ve no idea what he might be saying. He smiles at me and shrugs a little—lifts one shoulder and lets it drop. I buckle down to some serious drinking.

And it’s that night, pissed out of my mind (or so I tell myself) that I go to him for the first time.

It happens again and again, though. Viggo knows why I’m using him, doesn’t seem to mind that I have to get nearly legless to bear it. The first time it’s just kissing, kissing until my lips are swollen and my cheeks and neck are red and sensitive from his stubbly beard and I flee. Flee home, where the alcohol in my veins isn’t strong enough to keep me from slamming the door behind me and jerking off right there in the hall, leaning back against the door, shuddering, confused, seeing Dom’s face and feeling Viggo’s mouth against mine.

The next time I let Viggo give me a hand job. He’s good at it, we’re in his living room and I’m fumbling like a goddamn teenager, but he moves slowly, presses my body down on the sofa with his bulk. Comforting in a way; Viggo’s not a small man and the sheer weight of him is reassuring, pinning me down. Keeps me from exploding right off the couch when his beard is scraping my mouth and his tongue is licking slowly at mine and his hand is working hard and fast, double-time to his mouth, and I come with a noise so high-pitched and desperate I’m embarrassed. Again. But not as embarrassed as I might have been, because at least I managed to keep myself from shouting Dom’s name… It was a close thing.

He lets me give him a hand job afterward, and it’s not bad, pretty hot in fact. I’m grateful that he’s letting me use him like this. He knows the gratitude, acknowledges it in his wordless way and comes unapologetically, a deep groan on his lips, eyes shut and fingers bruising on my wrist. He opens his eyes after a while; I’m still sitting beside him with sticky fingers, wondering what to do with them.

“Taste,” he says, and I obey him. It doesn’t taste awful, or disgusting, just… bland, slightly salty. He hands me a tissue then, satisfied: “Not so bad,” and I nod.

“Viggo—” I want to thank him, I want to apologise for being such an arsehole, for only allowing this when I’m drunk, when I’m desperate. I want to apologise for the fact that tomorrow I’ll pretend this never happened. Because I will.

He stops me with a smile—I can read whatever I want into that smile. “Don’t worry about it, Billy. Come over whenever you want. When you can.” He sees the thanks in my eyes, pathetic sod that I am. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I get something out of it, too.”

“Okay.” It’s all I can say.

“Look at this.” He reaches past me, not bothering to do up his trousers, and pulls a box from the cupboard under his coffee table. It’s full of cast photos he’s taken. Always armed, with the fucking sword or the fucking camera and I could perform cheap psychology parlour tricks with that, but what’s the point? He’s Viggo, this is what he is—unashamed and interested and watching, always watching. He sorts through the box and then hands me a stack of black and white pictures. I sit back and look at them one by one while he stands and zips up.

They are pictures of Dom, and me, and Dom and me. Where we are both in the shot, everything in the background is slightly blurred, out of focus—a little darker than us, too. “How did you do that?” I ask. My voice is a little unsteady. Dom looks so beautiful in the pictures, and the way we look at each other is. Well. _Hypnotic_ is a word that fits.

“I didn’t do anything.” Viggo sits again, the couch sagging beside me as he examines the pictures I hold. “That’s always how they come out. Sometimes even when I don’t mean to focus on you.” He pulls one from the back of the stack and shows it to me—Dom and I, off to one side, laughing with one another; the camera was obviously pointed at Brett and John, but the two Dwarves are faded: vague, shadowy figures. Merry/Dom’s body burns almost white, and my face—god, even I am sometimes astonished by how young Pippin looks—is perfectly clear, incandescent and as sharply defined as a cut gemstone.

“What does it mean?” I’m talking to myself, and Viggo doesn’t answer. He seldom does. I’m reeling from the whisky, the feel of Viggo’s hand on my cock, the darkness of this desire, the one I fought for so long. I flee again.

The next time he sucks me off, and it’s fantastic. I close my eyes and slouch back on Viggo’s couch, legs spread wide, trousers kicked off and Viggo kneeling on the floor, leaning forward between my thighs to suck my cock. The orgasm builds, heat pooling in my belly and balls, my calves and thighs going tight and full. My hands clutch at the edge of the couch, my hips push upward in stuttery little thrusts. Viggo’s beard scrapes along the tender skin of my inner thighs… It absorbs me utterly and the climax itself nearly wipes my mind clean. It isn’t until I open my eyes, a minute or two later, that I realise what I did—I said Dom’s name, practically sobbed it, as I came.

Viggo is unconcerned.

And when he lets me (teaches me to) enter him, four visits later, he whispers over his shoulder to me, careful, implacable instructions as his body curves beneath mine, as his back slicks with sweat and his thighs tremble with the strain: _Slow now, you don’t want to hurt him, Billy, you want to make it good. Push in slow, push in and look for that sweet spot, make him cry out, find it_ —ah. _Yeah… ahhh. Right there... Remember, Billy. Remember_. I’m drunk enough that I just gasp a little, nod and harden further, admit the truth of it: I learn this for Dom; even as Viggo’s body clenches tightly around my cock, I think of Dom.

When we’re lying on the bed, after, and the condom’s been discarded and he watches me again, I offer to suck him. His erection is so tight and taut it almost hurts to look at, and I owe him something, I’m convinced.

“No,” he says, though. “Use your hands again.” So I do, I’m getting good at it, too. He hasn’t let me suck him off. Sometimes I chafe under the restraint of being the pupil—I’m not naturally very submissive. I want to take over, I want to push him back and suck him, want to take my turn, take control. _Later_ , I think. _Later_ , and a little part of my brain is whispering, _with Dom_ , and I hold that secret to myself, a little treasure.

Please let it happen.

~*~

It’s been a while since I used Viggo. Used him, because that’s what we do, use each other. I’m not sure what he gets out of it, but he watches me and Billy all the time. I see him from the corner of my eye, watching us from under the long lank hair of his wig or through the aperture of that fucking camera. I need to visit him again soon. Something’s changing in Billy, I can’t quite tell what but it makes me nervy and itchy, my wig feels uncomfortable and the glue around my ankles and on my feet is enough to drive me completely insane.

We’re on a break and I’m sitting off by myself—no real reason, just because. Viggo walks over and snaps a picture of me, right up close. Usually I mug for him when he does that, but today I can’t manage it, so whatever look was already on my face—exhaustion, irritation, sullenness, whatever—well, that’s what he gets. He sits down beside me and we both look over the set. Billy and Orlando and the Seans are playing Cup; Elijah’s sleeping, sitting up and slumped against a big foam rock. Grips and extras and makeup girls (and boys) are collapsed in little heaps. The smokers have gathered in a huddle downwind, and John regales Brett and Ian with some tale or other.

“Dom,” Viggo says. It startles me a little. I think I was ready to sink into a doze myself, I’d almost forgotten he’s right beside me.

“Yeah.” I stretch my legs out, awake again and wondering if I should ask Viggo for a meeting. 

I don’t have to, though, because he asks me for something. “Dom, I want to take some pictures of you.”

“Always happy to oblige the master,” I say. I mean it, Viggo’s pictures are beautiful, they’re Art with a capital A. But I can’t summon up energy at the moment, much less enthusiasm.

“I want to take them at my house. It’ll be… different.” Viggo’s voice is always—well, it’s odd, it’s off a little. Like the rest of us produce sound somewhere in our chest or belly, diaphragm and all that, but Viggo’s comes from somewhere else, his ulna or vertebrae or something. Lacunae, empty places he has that the rest of us don’t have, or don’t access, anyway. The spaces between his words are too long and the pitch is weird. Like it should be low but it isn’t, really, even though everyone thinks it is.

My wig feels even itchier and I rub fretfully at the glue on my nape. “I—shit, Viggo.”

Now his eyes are on me, those pale eyes that can pin you when you least expect it. “I promise you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Dominic.”

I owe him. The simple truth is, I do. So I shrug and nod. “When?”

“Come over Sunday, about six. And don’t get too drunk Saturday night. I don’t want you hungover.”

“Alright.” Pete calls the hobbits back and I put my hand on his shoulder to push myself to my feet, squinting in the sunlight. “Sunday, then.”

“See you then.”

~*~

When I get to Viggo’s house he’s already set things up. All the furniture’s been dragged from the living room, and the walls, the windows, are draped with white sheets. There are lamps in three of the four corners, and three futon mattresses on the floor, low and soft and lumpy, covered with soft white duvets so the entire floor, almost, is a bed. There are cameras, too—two on tripods and another around Viggo’s neck.

My first instinct is to burst into laughter. “What the feck is this?” I demand. “Are we making a pornographic film this afternoon?” Viggo’s barefoot, wearing denim shorts with ragged hems and a faded t-shirt that says “VOTE” in block letters across the front.

“We’re making pictures, Billy.” His voice is utterly assured, slightly amused, and I wish desperately for a drink. Isn’t that one of the signs of alcoholism? I can’t remember—is memory loss another? He insisted on sobriety today, though, and I feel panicky—all the edges are too clear this time. I can see and I can think and the blank white walls are making my heart trip too quickly.

“Take off your clothes.”

Oh, shit. It’s hard to break the habit of obedience—I find myself pulling off my t-shirt, unzipping my trousers without really thinking about it. And I owe him, we both know I do. It’s why I agreed to come here today—I suppose I knew when he asked me that this would be my payment.

“Everything, Bill,” and his voice is still amused. He walks around the room as I mumble a curse under my breath and drop my pants; he flips the lamps on, one after another. The room is warm and the lamps aren’t too bright, their beams focused on the ceiling so everything is bathed in a diffuse white light. The shadows my body throws are odd, some sharp and some blurred. The empty doorway is the only spot of interest for my eyes—I can’t quite stand to look directly at Viggo, who’s fiddling with a camera now, one of the tripods. The blue light of evening is visible through that door, washing in from the hallway beyond, darkening slowly.

“Don’t look at the door, Billy. Turn around and face this corner.” I look at where he’s pointing, angle my body away from the door 90 degrees. “Get on your knees.”

 _Flash_. I startle and I know my eyes get a little wild, my neck tightens as I lift my head too quickly and— _flash_. My heartbeat slows a little. Well. _Flash_. This is what I’m here for, isn’t it? I settle onto my knees. They’re always a little achy, these days; no matter how much padding Pete lets us put down— _flash_ —Dom and I (and Sean and Elijah of course) are on our knees far too much for comfort. But at least it’s a position I’m accustomed to. _Flash_. There are cushions, white of course, piled against the far wall, unobtrusive, out of the way. _Flash_ —Viggo’s caught my profile as I looked at them, and I turn my head to look at him. _Flash_.

“Sit back on your heels.” _Flash_. The flashes come from every direction, he must have remote controls on the tripoded cameras. I do as I’m told. My nudity isn’t bothering me much. Viggo’s seen me naked—hell, most of the cast and crew have seen me naked at this point, and I’m sure the rest will before we’re done. _Flash_. It’s just pictures. I glance at Viggo again, he’s a shadowy figure crouched in front of a lamp. _Flash_. I smile just a little and he gets that, too— _flash_.

“I want you to think of Dom.” _Flash_.

My face and neck heat immediately, with anger or arousal, I’m not certain which. “What—” My voice sounds wrong, thick and strange in my throat, and I clear it and try again. “What do you mean?” _Flash_.

“Think about him. Think about his smile. Think about his body.” _Flash_.

“I can’t—” _Flash_. “That’s not right. Not what I’m here for.”

“You’re here for me, aren’t you?” _Flash_. Viggo’s voice is as chilly and smooth as gin, and I wish again for a drink, even as my body flushes. I feel my cock swelling a little, the dizzying movement of blood to new territory. _Flash_. “Think of Dom’s ears. His hands. The way his eyes look and the hair at the back of his neck.”

“I—this is wrong.” I want to glare at him but my eyes are dazzled slightly—I’ve looked up as I’ve looked for him and the flashes are making me squint. _Flash_. I look back down, look at my cock, which feels heavy and full; my hands, clenched on my thighs. _Flash_. “Why? Viggo. Tell me why.”

“It doesn’t matter.” _Flash_. Viggo’s voice could be coming from a recorder—detached, attentive, perfectly serene. “Think of Dominic, Billy. What happens when you do that?”

 _Flash_. “You know perfectly well, you cunt.” I’m almost completely hard, now, angry, keeping my eyes down so I won’t be blinded. The foreskin on my cock has slid back most of the way, my whole body rinsed with heat and sweat prickling out on the small of my back and my forehead. “I can’t do this. Viggo, I can’t!” _Flash_. Panic and anger. _Flash_.

I’m going up onto my knees, aiming for my feet, I have to leave, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t do this— _Flash_.

“Look at the doorway, Billy.”

~*~

He told me that I should come in without knocking. He said the door would be unlocked, and I shouldn’t say anything, just leave my shoes on the porch like always and come in and down the hall and into the living room.

The house is dusky and unlit, but I see white light from the opening at the end of the hall. It flickers every few seconds with the quick lightning of a camera flash, and I hear voices. Viggo’s voice and… Billy’s voice. I hear my name. Then I’m in the doorway and my eyes are fixed, by body is fixed in stone.

Bill: naked, naked and flushed and hard, sitting on his heels, his fists clenched on his thighs, head bent submissively though his expression is anything but submissive. He’s angry, genuinely angry, a rare expression on that gentle face. I feel like a fly trapped in amber, frozen and unable to struggle, barely aware of the way my pulse hammers in my throat and in my cock, barely aware of the way my hands and feet go numb in the most sudden rush of desire and fear I’ve ever experienced. Viggo crouches to my left, against the wall, peering through his camera at Billy. I know he knows I’m there, just as I know Billy doesn’t.

“Think of Dominic, Billy. What happens when you do that?”

 _Flash_. “You know perfectly well, you cunt.” _Flash_. My shirt is sticking to the small of my back. “I can’t do this. Viggo, I can’t!” _Flash_. Bill’s face twists. _Flash_. I see the muscles in his thighs tighten as he begins to surge to his feet. _Flash_.

“Look at the doorway, Billy.”

The curve of his neck as he turns his head to look is absolutely perfect. There is a flash but it’s the last one I see because after it all I can see are Billy’s eyes, wide and dark and deep. “Dom—” His voice is so beautiful, he says my name like he’s coming, agony and ecstasy and oblivion. 

“Holy shit,” I breathe, I’m still trapped, I can’t move, and the connection between our eyes stretches out, silence like a weight settling between us.

“What do I do?” Billy cries finally, and I don’t know who he’s asking.

Viggo knows. He slides down to sit right there, settling in— “Come inside, Dom. Billy, stand up.” Both of us do just what he says. 

The blankets are coarse and soft under my feet, I’m wearing jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt, standing in front of Billy, not touching him but gravity being gravity I know that I’m about to, because he exerts a pull on me like the moon on the ocean.

He reaches out and touches my face. His fingers are careful and timid, brushing along my jaw, and then his palm curves to fit against my cheek and I swallow.

With the way my heart is racing and my blood is roaring in my ears, you might think that first kiss would be hard, rough, desperate. But it isn’t. It’s soft, as fragile and tentative as imagination itself. I lean forward to him, and only our mouths touch, but for his hand on my cheek. His lips are soft and hesitant; I shuffle a fraction closer and both of us sigh and tilt our heads, allowing our mouths to seal carefully together. 

I bring my hands up to hold his waist lightly; his left hand stays on my cheek and the other settles delicately on the back of my neck, rubbing small, desperate circles there. I tense when his fingers push the short hairs there the wrong way, and goosepimples sheet over my back in a pleasurable shiver as his tongue pushes cautiously between my lips. He tastes familiar, fear and desire, warm and wet and our mouths work perfectly together. I twine my tongue around his and then venture further, licking at the silky slide of his inner lip, the dark sweet places above and below and around his tongue.

“Billy,” I breathe when our mouths separate by the smallest fraction. His bare skin radiates heat and when he opens his eyes to return my gaze I begin to burn, inches from being consumed by what I see there. 

“Please,” he says, but what I read written in his eyes is not a plea. The grass-green of his irises is almost eclipsed by the pools of his pupils, as bottomless and black as space. I can see the fragile lines of age and weather at the corners of his eyes, the shine of sweat on his forehead. His breath wafts across my mouth and I can’t even nod. 

I lick my lips, though, and it’s consent.

God, his mouth, his _mouth_ , on mine, against my lips, my chin, my jaw and my ear. I twist and writhe under it, voicing things with every breath, the kind of sounds that hurt a little, low and desperate and I’d feel embarrassed but I can’t help it, can’t feel anything but Billy. His hands on my shoulders are no longer hesitant, he has me, completely and wholly. His fingers flex slightly as his palms grip and hold me nearly still, as still as I can manage, trembling as he moves downward, biting gently at the tendon where my shoulder and neck meet. I moan and my head falls back as my hands slide up his narrow waist, feeling the texture of his skin, the play of muscles in his upper back as he bends to lick greedily at my collarbone. 

He stands up so quickly I shy away, but his hands tug at the hem of my shirt and I raise my arms to let him pull it over my head. Then my hands tangle in his hair as he pulls me close again. “Dom, can I? Can I?” I don’t know what he’s asking but I answer promptly: “Yes, please, yes, Billy, yes.” His mouth crushes mine, bruising and needy, and his hands move down, over my denim-clad arse as he pulls me close, slapping our bare chests together.

Every inch of skin comes awake at the contact. I hold his skull carefully, fingers pushing into his fine hair. “Yes please, please, Billy, anything,” I’m babbling against his mouth. He nods, sliding one hand around, pressing his palm against the hardness in the front of my trousers.

“This?” he asks, and I gasp, nodding my head. “This. Yes. Everything. Anything.” He squeezes, hard, and I can see him again, _Billy_ , I can see him through and within this stranger, joyful and perilous and frantic with need. 

“Please,” I whisper, my lips pressing a kiss into his with the word.

“Yes.” He kisses me again, kneels before me. His arms circle my waist and he rests for a moment, cheek pressed against my belly, my hands in his hair. I watch him. His eyes are closed, face serene and hungry all at once. Another flash—I’m suddenly aware of them again. I glance up, find Viggo with my eyes as anger and gratitude churn in my belly. Is even this fodder?

He lowers his camera and cocks his head at me, and the answer is clear in his cool grey eyes. Yes.

“Accept it,” Billy says from below, and I look down again to meet his eyes. I swallow, and nod.

~*~

When Dom says the word “Please” against my lips I feel my cock jump—can he feel it, pressed against his denim-clad leg? I can barely speak but I do: “Yes,” I breathe into his mouth, and then I kiss his lips—again, I’m kissing him again, I’ve kissed him already and it doesn’t look as though I’ll be able to stop kissing him, ever, but still—it’s new and engrossing and I could probably do this for an eternity or two. Except—except I want to do everything else, too, and that hardness against my leg is his arousal and I asked and he consented, he said _please_. So I slide to my knees in front of him.

There’s a moment of perfect clean beauty, the quick up-and-down of his belly against my cheek, the warmth of his skin even below the denim he wears, and oh it feels so right to have my arms around him like this, to rest against this skin, to have these hands stroking my hair gently.

His breathing catches, hitches, and I look upward. He gazes at Viggo, face troubled. But if this is the price for what we have both—both? yes, both—received from him, it’s a small one. Strange, uncomfortable, supremely surreal; but not wrong. Nothing in this feels wrong to me.

“Accept it,” I say quietly.

His eyes meet mine, shifting like the sea, grey to blue to grey, and I stifle the surge of desire I feel when I see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He nods. _Flash_.

I go slowly, as slow as I can. My fingers fumble, numb and clumsy on his jeans, but he’s motionless as a statue, only the barest tremble of his fingers in my hair to alert me to how sensitive he must be. _Flash_. “Shite,” I curse under my breath as I finally yank the third button open, and he strokes my hair, a quick reassuring scritch across the sensitive skin of my scalp. _Flash_.

I have them undone. I fold the fly back and tug at the material at his hips, gently pulling the trousers down, ignoring the proud jut of his cock, which springs out eagerly ( _flash_ ), pushing the fabric lower and then lifting his feet from it, one at a time; his fingers flex and I feel him using me to balance. When the jeans are completely off I throw them toward the dark hole of the doorway. _Flash_.

This—I stare at Dom’s cock. “I’ve never,” I mumble; clear my throat. “I’ve never done this before.” I look up and meet Dom’s hesitant smile. _Flash_.

“Do whatever you’d like, Bill.” His voice is gravel and honey, and I press a little against his hands, like a cat, just to feel my eyelids sink. “It all feels good.”

I part my lips then, looking carefully at his cock, holding his hips. This is something I’ve never done with Viggo: taken the time to examine. _Flash_. Partly because I never sucked him off, but also because I didn’t want to look too closely. Dom is nicely shaped, uncut just like me, the foreskin all the way back and drum-taut head shining a little with smeared pre-come; a clear bead of liquid wells up at the slit and I lean forward to lick it off without a second thought. _Flash_. He inhales, but I’m busy (selfishly) thinking about what I’ve tasted. I want more, feel my face and chest flushing and the twitch of my cock with every heartbeat. His is moving, too, and I lean forward and take him in slowly, barely closing my lips around him, holding him loosely in my mouth so I can feel his pulse against my tongue, flat along the underside of his cock, and against my lips, curving in an O. _Flash_.

“Bill,” Dom says and I feel a shiver run the length of his body, vibrating under my hands.

Will his cock pulse and shudder if he comes in my mouth? I set about finding out, eyes closed to shut out the intrusive flare of the camera.

It’s the pornography I was ashamed to glimpse, the dreams I was ashamed to have, the friends I distanced myself from because I was scared my feelings might be too obvious… And it’s Dom, so much more important and better and—this is _him_ in my mouth and my hands and that’s his voice making those sounds, those’re his hands tugging at my hair, and the scent in my nose and the taste on my tongue as I draw it along his prick, heavy and thick and hard—all Dom. 

“Oh Jesus fucking Christ Bill, Billy, oh please yes god Bill—”

I feel him shaking again, feel the muscles in his thighs tense and tighten. I know he’s trying not to choke me, trying not to thrust into my mouth. I take him in further, working my hand awkwardly with the motion of my head as I slide up and down, licking and sucking when I remember to, when I’m not completely overwhelmed by what I’m doing.

My own cock throbs almost painfully—I shift involuntarily, wishing for friction, but there’s none to be found at this angle. So I put it out of my head and suck like there’s no tomorrow (this evening may kill me so it could be true), humming, waiting, wanting, needing—

“Stop, Billy, stop.”

Dom says it and pulls back, out of my mouth. I sit back on my heels and look up at him, waiting.

“Will you—I want you—” He drops to his knees, pulls me up and against him. He flushes hot red and I stare, watching the colour burn along his chest and neck, wanting to follow it with my mouth, with my hands. I put my right hand onto his pectoral to feel it, and feel his heart instead, thudding away quickly beneath my palm. 

“What do you want?” My voice sounds sleepy, vague. “Whatever you want, Dom.” I lean to kiss his nipple, erect and hard, and when he speaks again I feel his voice against my mouth.

“I want you inside me. I want you inside me when I come. I want you inside me when _you_ come.”

 _Flash_.

~*~

Viggo has lube. I’m not really surprised by that. Also not surprised when he instructs Billy to throw it out the door after he slicks up, after I’m slippery, too. Wouldn’t do to have that ugly plastic tube in any of his beautiful pictures. I can’t summon up any irony for the thought, because by now it’s simple truth. The flashes from his camera have slowed, become a rhythmic arrhythmia that dictates the speed of our movements, and I tune it out, let it vanish into the blur that’s everything except the man lying over me. Bill lowers himself to my mouth and he tastes of lust and love and desperation and trust, wet heat and sweetness. He murmurs my name against my lips before he moves onto his knees. I pull my legs up and back and he lifts them to his shoulders, turning his head to press a kiss to my calf as I shiver, empty without his fingers in me, without him in me. 

“Bill,” I whisper, and he smiles at me and shifts forward, nudging the head of his cock against my entrance. And I don’t even say the next word, just barely mouth it, but he knows, and he nods.

“Yes. Me, too,” he says, and he presses inward.

For weeks I’ve been begging Viggo to slam me until I could feel it in my throat, and now I want to beg Billy to slow down. He is so hot, thick, and tight inside me that I shake with every breath, sweat sliding down my temples and pooling at the small of my back, trickling from the creases behind my knees where they’re bent over Billy’s shoulders. The pillows I lie on darken with it, and I imagine that later, after, I will be able to tug the material between my teeth, flick my tongue out and taste the salt of our collision, laid like lace on the coarse fabric.

“Need to—” His fingers slip on my hips, scrabble for purchase. “Dom—” he gasps and this is nothing like Viggo or any other man I’ve ever been with. His voice is high and strained, breath panting across my neck and chest as he bends his head and begins to move, the sticky burn of being filled easing almost immediately into slick awareness of every millimeter of his cock as it slides in and out. I bite down hard on my lower lip to keep myself from rocking up into him. Let him set the pace—though I know I can’t last, won’t last, the way my cock aches and throbs. The vibrations as his hips slap against my ass will be enough to make me come if they continue, and Bill’s trying to take it slow but I can see the agonised desire to fuck me hard scrawled across his face—it’s easy enough to read in clenched teeth and damp, matted hair, in the gleam of sweat on reddened skin. But he forces himself to deep, leisurely strokes, staring at my face, trying to decipher whatever messages are written there.

“What—” he asks.

“Anything.” I groan and arch my back, eyes closing against my will. “Anything you want.”

He growls, lower than I’ve ever heard his voice before, and the next thrust is less careful. “So tight,” he grates and I forget how to breathe as he moves faster and faster yet, intent and possessive and frantic, the slap of his balls against my arse and the wet sound as he fucks me deeper and deeper. “Want you—god—” He shifts and as the angle of his thrusts changes, his prick brushes my prostate; his right hand grasps my cock suddenly, twisting, squeezing, working.

I inhale, a sobbing, shaky breath; oxygen gives me back my voice, which spirals and loops around his name, again and again. His harsh breathing provides an unsteady, ragged counterpoint and I’m close so close, back arching thighs tensing head thrown back—

“Look at me look at me Dom, look at me when you come—” Billy gasps, and I force my eyes open and look at him, falling into his eyes as my body bows up, lifting right off the cushions into his hand as I come, the hot rush of it shooting through me and spilling over and in his eyes I see gratitude and disbelief. As my body sinks back he shoves deeply into me again and I cry out, thin, weak-voiced, lifting one hand to cup his face as he stares into my eyes and comes within me, shuddering, bucking, lips parted and eyes blazing into mine, fierce and frightened and triumphant, all of that and more, more, the Billy I love and need and want, all emptied, given, given to me.

~*~

They’re lying tangled together, nothing left but satiation and panting breath; Bill’s face is buried in Dom’s sweaty neck and Dom’s lips move with tender, inaudible promises as his hands splay open, flat on the narrow, slippery planes of Billy’s back. I’m crouched here by the wall, cock tight against the inseam of my shorts and the back of my neck hot with desire and interest; the plastic of my camera slips against my damp palms, but I’ll disregard my own prurience in favour of staying where I am, absorbing all I can.

I’ll have these moments forever, on film, and so will they. Those two men curling even closer together: all low voices, broken words and soothing touches now. I’ve had them both but never had anyone the way they have each other. I knew from the start what could happen between them, and if I used them for my own ends, I don’t think they hate me for it. 

…

They are rapt, wrapped up, and there are things that must be done. I push myself back, up the wall until I am standing on wobbly legs, knees creaking. The cameras need more film, and my two guests no doubt need water. I fetch two bottles and leave them beside the sprawl of humanity in the center of the room, never looking at their faces, ignoring and ignored by them, moving away to tend to other needs. After a while I know they’re tracking me with their eyes as I pad about the perimeters of the room, accompanied by the quiet click and snap of mechanical chores.

I don’t speak to them, but when I sit back down in my place against the white wall, pockets bulging with small black film canisters, I smile to myself. The night is young, and there are rolls and rolls to go.


End file.
